It's all in the eyes of the beholder
by ChicGeek007
Summary: This is the story of Rosie Watson and her crazy life at 221B Baker Street
1. 5 years

**D** **isclaimers: I don't own any BBC characters in this story, no beta, not british so bear with me...that is all**.

My daddy loves me very much! I can see it in his brown eyes whenever I show him my pictures. Most of them are of me, him, and my uncle Sherlock. I absolutely adore my uncle! He is very funny, even when he is calling me a "tiny, bumbling tinker", whatever that means. Daddy tells me Sherlock is a "detective" and a busy man. But he always finds time to tell me bedtime stories of his greatest adventures! When I grow up, I want to be just like Uncle Sherlock!

I see other kids walking around with their mums and dads, and I sometimes wonder where my mum is. Daddy talks about her all the time, but she's never around. One day I'll show her all my pictures and tell her about all my adventures!

Sometimes when my daddy and uncle are out on a "case", I stay with auntie Molly and Mrs. Hudson, though I call her Nan. They are very fun, and sometimes we go to auntie's work, but I dont like it so much cause it's cold, and I'm not allowed to touch anything. But then daddy comes back and he smiles. I love his smile. I wish he always smiled.

My favorite things in life are drawing pictures and taking strolls around the town centre with my daddy and sometimes my uncle. I am very happy when my uncle comes, because he is always watching people as they pass, unless he is in deep thought. I can tell that because he makes a funny face. I like to watch people too, but Uncle Sherlock is psychic, and he seems to know everyone with just a look. I wish I could do that. Maybe one day I will be as smart as Uncle Sherlock.


	2. 9 years old

Disclaimers: I don't own any BBC characters in this story, no beta, not british so bear with me...that is all.

I realize my life is different in many ways.

1\. I have an absence of a mother

2\. I have a crazy Uncle Sherlock with his odd experiments and extravagant cases

3\. I have an adoring and sometimes overprotective father (maybe not that different, but compared to "normal dads," definitely.)

My uncle always tells me I have intelligent eyes. He also tells me that I'm a distraction and a nuisance because I'm always up in his business. I just can't help myself sometimes. I love to read my Dad's blog, and I'm always asking questions about how he and Sherlock solved the case, and what happened.

School is really boring. I already know what they're teaching us, and I don't really have many friends. A lot of the kids call me weird and a freak. I made the mistake of inviting some friends over, and forgot about the head in the fridge.

For my birthday, my Dad gave me the most amazing present ever!! He gave me my very first sketchbook and set of pencils for my drawings! I'm taking an art class right now in year 5, and I absolutely love it. My favourite thing to draw is eyes. To me, every pair of eyes gives a story, and I love stories.

I love my Dad's eyes. They are very warm, but they tend to have a sadness to them. One day I will learn those stories.They also tend to change color, though my uncle tells me that that's scientifically impossible. He also doesn't believe in socializing, and "deletes" any supposedly unnecessary information, including my presence a lot of the times, so I tend to ignore his science blab.

Sherlock's eyes are the complete opposite of Dad's. They tend to be cold and calculating, with occasional hints of excitement and a teensy bit of madness. I like to call it eccentric though. Sometimes, on rare occasions, I see something different that I can't quite understand. It always peeks my curiosity when I see it. One day I'll figure out what that is.


	3. 14 years

**Disclaimers: I don't own any BBC characters in this story, no beta, not british so bear with me...that is all.**

As I sit here on the steps of the apartment, I sketch the eyes of the new client upstairs. She is young and pretty, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She had a gleam of skepticism towards Sherlock, and a major crush on Dad. I hate her already.

She obviously has a husband, or did if the indent on her left finger has anything to do with it. He is definitely cheating on her with a redhead, and she wants to know who it is. Probably her sister, or someone equally as scandalous. Quite boring to be honest. Based on the whispers I'm catching, she is probably hearing the same thing.

The door opens and she storms out, perfect hair fluttering behind her. She looks down and sees my drawing. She gives me a withering look and mutters under her breath about teenagers and their obsession with anime. I just smirk and rip out the page, making a three pointer into the bin.

I go up the stairs to see my uncle pacing across the floor and Dad making his fifth cup of tea today. I unceremoniously plop onto the couch and turn on the telly to watch the news. Apparently there is a terrorist on the loose running rampant around Essex, and a higher crime rate than ever in the states, not suprisingly.

Sherlock stops pacing and announces that he is going to his bedroom so that he can think, like he hasn't been thinking this whole time. Always so dramatic, my uncle. After he leaves, Dad comes over and hands me a fresh cuppa. I gladly take the steaming mug and take a small sip.

I bring up how that girl looked like my mum from the pictures he's shown me. His eyes divert and he glances nervously around the room. Too late, I already saw the pain in his eyes. He doesn't like how chalantly I speak of Mum.

When he took me to her grave, I didn't really know how to react. I couldn't find it in me to cry. This was a woman I only knew about from stories, and I've learned how biased those tend to be. Whenever I tried to remember her, I only see faded images of a smile, a finger, an eye.

Sometimes I try to draw her eyes, but I always get frustrated and ended up tossing them one after one in the bin. They are always flat and lifeless, emotionless. I hate them. I wanted to meet them, to hear their stories, to find a hint of myself in them. But I never even got the chance.

My Dad tries to say that she will always be there, but I can tell that he is broken inside that I resent her. He tries to tell me I'm just like her, but I think he is just trying to keep his dead wife alive. My dead mother alive. I shouldn't feel this way, but I can't shake the feeling that all my dad sees is her, not me.

I realize that my tea has gone cold, and my dad has fallen asleep in the recliner. I dump out the mug and take a blanket and drape it over him. He is so peaceful when he sleeps. His sadness is painful to see, but I can never look away. I just want him to be happy with me.

I go to the loo and splash some cold water in my face. When I look up I look at my own eyes. Brown with blue undertones and gold flecks dotted around the iris. I can see the inquisitiveness in them, the sense of adventure. I also see the tiredness and loneliness.

I look back at my story and I wonder if there was something more I could do with my life. My few friends text me to do to the cinema with them, or to grab a bite, but I always turn them down. I push them away, just like my dad pushes me away.

I blink out of my reverie and head to my bedroom, softly closing the door behind me. I hear the faint trendils of a violin floating from my uncle's room, and I close my eyes and let the tears fall.

When they stop, I quickly wipe them away and get ready for bed. But my mind is already calculating a plan to figure out who Rosamund Watson is, and what she can do to make a difference in her life.


End file.
